One of the things that Vincent and I have in common is a love of old things. The worn, the rusted, the aged – that which many people find messy or ugly – is beautiful to me because it speaks of the time that has passed, the character of a place, the history of what something once was, and what it is now. It is that love that caused me to be completely and utterly charmed by Auvers-sur-oise. It is a delicate and quiet place, robust and full — matured to perfection.
Although I love history everywhere, it of course sang quite fully that day in Auvers as I imagined Vincent walking through this place one hundred and nineteen years ago, choosing subjects to paint. Whether it be the town…
…or the plateau.
And have I mentioned how much I love the big old wooden shutters?
As I was finally leaving this exquisite place, there was one last gem in store for me. I had missed it on the way into town, and I had not read about it in any of the pamphlets. But as I walked back to the train station, I noticed a small, walled off park. There was an entrance, and as I peered inside from across the street, I saw it —
And my heart stopped.
And you strode forth into the yellow light of dusk,
Skin and clothing etched by the wooden wrinkles of Time,
And your branches were reaching up and up,
And your thirst was unquenchable as ever,
Vincent, after seeing the room where you lived and died, I needed a break. I took a lovely walk around the whole town for a good three hours, stopping to eat a sandwich on the side of the road. You would also take long walks, and I went as far as necessary to see every wooden sign that marked where you had made a painting. Your town charmed me in every way. I have many photos, but I will share some of those next week, because today, we have bigger things to get to.
The path from the room where you died to your tomb is the same walk the few people present for your funeral made. Since Auvers-sur-oise sits on the side of a hill, it is an uphill walk. Only six people were present that day – Theo and friends who all loved you fiercely – and who were all devastated by their lonely task. It was a very hot day in July 1890, and in August 2009 I let the heat fill my body, and imagined the weight of your casket.
We climbed past the church you painted, past the church that would hold no funeral for you since you were a suicide. We went up past all the houses, and suddenly found ourselves on an incredible plateau —
I recognized the wide expanse from your last paintings here, of fields going on forever and ever…
I spotted the gate to your cemetery. I began to feel a bit dizzy. Both my desire and my fear of entering was overwhelming. Your bones are there. The headstones I had seen in photos a dozen times. Both you and Theo.
Reader, I cannot tell you precisely what transpired inside these gates. Once faced with his grave, I realized how alive he is for me… I was struck down with enormous grief. I had so many thanks to give him, and so many apologies on behalf of all who turned him away. I took no photos, but I will tell you that green, green vines thrive in a bed over his grave – planted there by Dr. Gachet. I was happy to know that nature continues to thrive in your presence, Vincent; you have become its sustenance, as it once was for you.
Eventually, I had to force myself to leave. Once I had knelt at your feet, the idea of leaving seemed quite absurd. I could not leave Auvers. Not yet.
There were a few benches in the shade by the church, and I sat there, finally letting my emotions run their course. I knew I did not sit alone. After a long time, I considered perhaps it was finally time to leave.
However, a distant sliver of twilight beckoned me back towards the front of the church, close to the road to the cemetery. Once I got closer (to take a better photo), I saw something I had noticed on the way to the cemetery, but ignored:
Bathed in sunlight, a tunnel of green darkness leading… to light. I immediately decided to take a video of the walk, so I could remember, so you could remember, so you – Reader – could feel and see… The video is a bit lengthy, but I think it’s worth it.
I did not know there was another sign of your painting left in town. I did not know that these would be the wheat fields where you shot yourself. But of course, of course. And to think I almost left town without coming here.
You would have liked to die here, among the wheat you felt you sowed and reaped, surrounded by nothing but nature.
It has come to my attention in the past week or so that the tree outside my window turns yellow. This room is my studio these days, but it used to be my bedroom for many years. I never noticed the yellow. Lately, this view makes me very happy.
In general, Vincent has gotten me to look up more often – at the sky, at the sun, the clouds, and also the trees. Actually, he’s gotten me to look at everything in nature more carefully, and with more appreciation. It’s not so hard to do, one just has to leave time for a quiet walk or bike ride (without a cell phone) – and you’ll find inner peace is close behind. Well, as long as you can stay present in the moment. There was a quote I chose the other day from one of his letters, which articulates something that has become so obvious to me over the past two years doing my research:
“I’ve had a time of nervous, barren stress when I had days when I couldn’t find the most beautiful countryside beautiful, precisely because I didn’t feel myself part of it. That’s what pavements and the office — and care — and nerves — do.”
12 October 1883 to Theo
So many of us forget that we are a part of nature, that human beings do not need money, we need food and air. Certain societal concepts overthrow us, separate us from what’s actually present and alive; they make us chase phantoms instead of appreciating the wonders that are around us every day.
Walking to work the other day I came upon a particularly exquisite tree.
I couldn’t tear myself away without capturing more of it. It was a canopy of yellow.
Trees in particular have come to my attention, because they often grow to be as old as any human (and in many cases, much older!), they offer shelter, give us wood, paper, and oxygen. I think of them as the humans of plant life. Oh yeah – and goddamn, are they ever beautiful.
I’d be quite happy if heaven looks something like this.
Vincent also speaks of trees often, and in one letter wrote “those trees were superb; there was drama in each figure I was going to say, but I mean in each tree,” (4 Sept 1883) – and completely charmed my pants off.
I hope you’ll start looking at some things differently too, Reader… In fact, that’s one of my foremost goals.
"..art is something greater and higher than our own skill or knowledge or learning. [Art] is something which, though produced by human hands, is not wrought by hands alone, but wells up from a deeper source, from man's soul..."
Vincent van Gogh, letter from March 1884
Twelve years ago, like many others, I fell in love with Vincent van Gogh. I followed this love, never letting go, reading about him and visiting his paintings all I could, and I am still journeying - I hope you will join me, Reader. This path has led me to you and you to me, and both of us to beauty, to art, to life, to death and to something greater...
